Translation (with Revision) of Poem by Boris Slutsky, БОРИС СЛУЦКИЙ, "ЛОШАДИ В ОКЕАНЕ," "Horsies at Sea and on Land"

 

                                                            ЛОШАДИ В ОКЕАНЕ

БОРИС СЛУЦКИЙ
(1919-1986)
 
И. Эренбургу

Лошади умеют плавать,
Но — не хорошо. Недалеко.
«Глория» — по-русски — значит «Слава», -
Это вам запомнится легко.

Шёл корабль, своим названьем гордый,
Океан стараясь превозмочь.
В трюме, добрыми мотая мордами,
Тыща лощадей топталась день и ночь.

Тыща лошадей! Подков четыре тыщи!
Счастья все ж они не принесли.
Мина кораблю пробила днище
Далеко-далёко от земли.

Люди сели в лодки, в шлюпки влезли.
Лошади поплыли просто так.
Что ж им было делать, бедным, если
Нету мест на лодках и плотах?

Плыл по океану рыжий остров.
В море в синем остров плыл гнедой.
И сперва казалось — плавать просто,
Океан казался им рекой.

Но не видно у реки той края,
На исходе лошадиных сил
Вдруг заржали кони, возражая
Тем, кто в океане их топил.

Кони шли на дно и ржали, ржали,
Все на дно покуда не пошли.
Вот и всё. А всё-таки мне жаль их —
Рыжих, не увидевших земли.

1951 г. (first published 1956)

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation/Revision by U.R. Bowie

Horsies at Sea and on Land
                                                                                 For Ilya Ehrenburg

Horsies can swim,
but not well, not too far.
 
“Glory” in Russian is “Slava;”
not hard to remember,
like “Tar” or “Polar Star”
(but this particular ship
was called GLORY).
 
A ship (this particular one)
steamed along,
proud name on its hull,
striving to conquer
the billowing waves.
 
Shaking their muzzles
most kindly and long,
clomping their hooves
to the beat of a song,
in the hold galloped (in place)
one thousand horsies.
 
A thousand, mind you!
Count up all the horseshoes:
Four thousand! Clomping away!
And not a shred of happiness
in all those clomps.
 
Far removed from the dry land they preferred,
the horsies clomped on clankily,
feeling just a little bit absurd,
when BAM and then BAM-BAM:
a big ole mine blew away
the ship’s weak undergird.
 
The crew climbed into lifeboats,
soon were off and sailing;
the horsies started swimming,
some were wailing (neighing).
 
Poor horsies, what on earth (at sea)
were they to do?
The places in the boats
were mighty few,
the horsies were,
in one French word,
beaucoup (a thousand!).
 
Upon that ocean’s blue seas
was a russet-colored island;
the horsies galloped swimming,
neighing hopefully,
toward its pleasant,
green-hued, land-based
haven.
 
At first the swimming galloped
free and easy,
the sea that day was calm,
in no way queasy,  
the isle, so they thought,
would surely save ’em
(rhymes with “haven”).
 
But the horsies’ hopes
were turning
somewhat sour;
they were running low,
it seemed,
on horsiepower.
 
The horses neighed out curses
dire and dour
at whomever sought
to drown them,
at the men or gods
in power.
 
But—TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: WE INTERRUPT THIS POEM BY BORIS SLUTSKY TO BRING YOU A BETTER ENDING, FOR SLUTSKY’S ENDING HAS THE SWIMMING HORSES WHINNYING FOR HELP AS THEY RUN OUT OF HORSEPOWER; THEY STOP THEIR GALLOPING/SWIMMING, GIVE UP HOPING TO SURVIVE, THEN SINK GASPING TO THE BOTTOM OF THE DEEP BLUE SEA. AND DROWN. HUH?
 
NEW ENDING:

God was feeling merciful;
He looked down from the sky,
saw the swimming horsies
and said, My, oh my, oh my!
 
Sent a different island down,
put the horsies on it.
There they live this very day,
(all thousand of them!),
whinnying and chomping hay,
galloping toward distant bay,
singing songs and yelling “Yay!”
 
Not swimming anymore.
For horsies, you see, can swim,
but not too well at all . . .
and not that far, oh, none too far,
 
SO: moral of the story.
If you’re a writer writing horsies,
treat your horsies nice; and
be sure to keep your blessed horsies
on DRY LAND!